


Mirror, Mirror

by Theartfulldodger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Character Study, Drarry Microfic, Emotional Hurt, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, POV Second Person, depicted hurt and undepicted comfort?, really it's a second person/first person blended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 17:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger
Summary: Draco Malfoy didn't always like what he saw in the mirror. Trust me, I would know.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Drarry Microfics





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Drarry Microfic's prompt, Burn It by Agust D.
> 
> This work has been translated into Mandarin by [bluebubbling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebubbling/pseuds/Bluebubbling) and can be found [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30053286)

I remember the day you got your Mark. You stood in front of me, spine stiff and not a hair out of place, as you straightened your crisp suit. The picture of confidence, but I wasn’t fooled. I watched as your stern gaze faltered when you threaded your tie, lured to the fresh splotch of ink hidden beneath your sleeve. 

I remember the nights you would lie in your bed, eyes bloodshot and nail beds chewed until they bled. Eventually, you stopped flinching at the screams that pierced the walls like arrows through soft flesh. Each morning, you stumbled towards me, barefoot and disheveled. You frowned at your reflection, assessed the darkening purple under your silver eyes, measured the hollowing of your cheeks. 

I remember the night you came home, lifted the blinds, and stripped in the moonlight. It had been a while since I’d seen you last. You gripped my frame and stared, eyes wide, cringing at the pathetic heap of rotting meat you’d become. Your ribs were sharp, as though they may puncture your skin, and your hair fell out in clumps. Though the house was quiet then, you stretched out on your bed to stare at the ceiling each night, rarely succumbing to sleep. Sometimes, when you did sleep, you’d wake screaming and trembling from the horrors you’d relived. I stood, helpless in the corner, as you turned to me to straighten your hair and see that you were still alive.

I remember the first time you brought him home. You were already arguing before you both strode through the door. I quivered in my frame when he slammed the door, all fiery temper and righteous fury. In the midst of the shouting, he threw a stick at you and you threw a tea cup at me. Shatters of porcelain and glass littered the floor. If I had any nerves, I imagine it would have hurt, but not as much as you hurt when you watched him leave.

I remember the day he came back. But this time, the sound of creaking hinges was the only announcement of his arrival. You sneered and he deflected. He accused and you retorted. You cried and glanced at my broken shards, unable to resist curiosity’s need to know how undesirable you looked. Apparently, he disagreed, because he took your face between his palms and whispered of your worth, of your beauty, of his love. You didn’t say anything at all when he walked you to the bed and pressed his lips to yours.

I remember the day you left. Sunlight wasn’t yet filtering through the curtains when you rose and began to pack. Socks and shirts and books flew into an open bag at the direction of your hand. Your eyes were clear and your countenance, resolute, when you straightened your tie and laced your shoes. His hair was dripping wet when he appeared with a crack in the center of your bedroom. “Are you ready?” he asked when he stood behind your back and wrapped his arms around your waist. You caught his gaze in my reflection, and you nodded. You wore the slightest of grins and squeezed his arm before you both disappeared with the same loud ‘pop.’ 

And now… now I sit, collecting dust in the corner of your bedroom. Sometimes, your mother lies on your bed and weeps. It’s an ugly and congested cry. Sometimes she looks at me as she lies with her head on her arm, just like you did. She stares until her eyes are glossy and her breathing slows. Your father will call for her, but she never responds. Eventually, she stands to straighten her robes and wipe the mascara from her cheeks. Mask firmly in place, she stiffens her spine before walking out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come say 'hello' [on Tumblr](https://graymatters.tumblr.com/).


End file.
